


light we bear inside

by Anonymous



Category: Person of Interest (TV), Taskmaster (UK TV) RPF
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Cock Slut, Collars, Consensual Kink, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, Embarrassment, Gags, Human Furniture, Light CBT, M/M, Spreader Bars, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Let's not kid ourselves: this is absolute pure filth and you don't need to know any of the characters to enjoy it. However, both of these shows are so canonically kinky it's debatable how they ever slipped past the censors.
Relationships: Greg Davies/Alex Horne, Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46
Collections: Anonymous





	light we bear inside

**Author's Note:**

> if you know anything about Person of Interest: pretend John and Harold are here because a former Taskmaster contestant held a grudge and the Machine wanted them to look into the number personally.  
> if you know anything about Taskmaster: you can't tell me this is out of the bounds of possibility. (that said, if you are associated with Taskmaster in any way and don't know how to keep the fourth wall thick as SHIT don't read this.)

I offer you a look inside, I offer you that trust  
I need your strength to help me fight the battles that I must  
I need you to remind me of the light we bear within  
That there's more to life than struggle and the things we seek to win

\- Heather Dale, As I Am

* * *

“Well, slut?” Davies snapped at the man knelt silently beside his massive chair - nearly a throne, really - “Aren’t you going to offer our visitors anything? Or have you forgotten your training so quickly?”

Eyes kept submissively lowered, the man shook his head at once, shuffling forward awkwardly with legs cuffed and spread. “I’m sorry, Master; Sirs. Can I fetch you anything to drink? Or any other pleasure?”

Harold felt vaguely sick, and he spoke as gently as he could, knowing that beside him John was a tensely coiled spring waiting only on his word to release. “No, thank you. Could you tell me your name?”

The man’s gaze cut at once to Davies, and if the fear in his eyes wasn’t real it was very well feigned. “I am the Taskmaster’s Assistant.”

“But you have a name, surely,” Harold pressed, still gently. Davies, in the corner of his eye, was sitting back on his throne with his legs sprawled wide, taller sitting than Harold was standing. He looked only amused by Harold’s inquiries, not enraged. Good. If there was a chance this was consensual, that the threat came from elsewhere and wasn’t yet another power-hungry asshole hiding behind kink to abuse and hurt, he would seize it thankfully.

“My Master calls me Little Alex Horne.” The man’s face was suffused with shame, and his eyes were averted from Harold’s own.

“Tell him the rest of it, slut.” Davies said, leaning forward a little. “Go on. Tell him how your own wife calls you that.”

Alex Horne, if that was indeed his name, went darker still, but forced out, “My - my wife does call me that, and everyone on the street.”

“And what do I call you when you’re being very good?” Davies asked, almost crooning; the juxtaposition between the tone of his voice and the shattered remnants of the man on the floor were a contrast so brilliant Harold felt like he himself couldn’t breathe. 

“Your good little boy, Master.” 

“But you don’t earn that very often, do you, slut.” Davies stretched out a long leg and prodded Alex’s bollocks, trapped in the tight sack of his sheath. Harold’s eyes were drawn there, inexorably, and despite the near ritualistic humiliation, his cock was so hard it had damped the silk surrounding it to translucency. 

By his side, John’s breath drew in sharply, and Harold knew he’d seen it as well. Whatever Davies’ game was, he obviously knew it well enough to draw Alex to this cliff’s edge. The expression on Alex’s face was clear enough to Harold - he would either float into subspace or tip helplessly into drop. 

He swayed on his knees, licking at his lips and stammering, “I - I don’t -”

“Of course you don’t,” Davies cut him off, sneering. “That’s why you need me, isn’t it? Poor little Alex Horne, can’t be trusted not to shy at a stray paper. Get over here, slut.”

Alex half fell in his eagerness to obey, and Davies caught him by the collar, supple leather with a gold engraved label, and dragged him between his knees again. “You need a firm hand, don’t you?” One of said hands was stroking down Alex’s flank, casually possessive, dipping between Alex’s cheeks to toy with the plug holding him open. “Someone who knows what you really are.”

“Yes, Master.” Alex’s head was still held up by his master’s hand on his collar, and beside Harold, John swallowed hard and then swallowed again. Harold wondered if he was feeling the phantom touch of leather; struggling to breathe as someone’s hand applied casual pressure. He wondered if it was a good memory or bad, for John.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m - I’m a slut, Master.”

“And whose slut are you?”

“I’m your slut, Master.”

Davies sat back in his throne, tossing Alex down again to his feet. “And if you forget for so much as a second it’ll be much the worse for you. Well? What are you waiting for? You’re only good for keeping my cock warm; get to it.”

Alex’s hands were trembling as he obeyed, but his dive forward onto his master’s cock was all eagerness. Over his head, Davies’ eyes met Harold’s, and he smiled. He reached into his pocket and took out something bright orange. Ear plugs, inflatable ones. “I’m taking your senses, slut,” he informed Alex, casually, and slipped one into each ear. He took up the eyemask that was laying beside him on the small table, one that any rich businessman might wear on a flight, and covered Alex’s eyes. Then he pressed one large hand to the back of Alex’s head, keeping him on his cock, and looked at Harold again.

“It’s consensual, and safe.” He said, without preamble. “I’ll send you the contract and I’m happy to show you any correspondence with his wife. I won’t say it’s sane, because I don’t believe any of us are, but it’s all things he wants, and asks me for. I also won’t do you the disservice of pretending I don’t enjoy it; I do. I love finding more and more ways to humiliate him and I have a masochistic streak a mile wide. But I say this with all the love in the world - he’s the biggest pain slut I’ve ever met in all my years in the scene, and I mean that both physically and emotionally.”

“Why the earplugs?” John demanded, voice hoarse but sharp. “Afraid he won’t back up your story?”

Davies’ gaze flicked over him, leisurely, and Harold had to clench his fists to keep himself from making some overt gesture of possession. Judging by the smirk Davies’ favoured him with, he might as well have gone ahead. “No, he would, and you’re welcome to come back in a few hours and ask, once the weekend is up. If I tried to bring him up now, he’d drop, and probably crash, and we’ve come too far together to have what we have ruined because of a couple prudes.”

Ah. A challenge. Harold was intimately familiar with those, and yet he hesitated, looking first at John.

John went to his knees in answer, and answer enough. Harold settled a hand at the back of his neck, allowing himself now the response to Davies’ admiring look. “John is mine. You don’t give him orders, and you don’t touch him.”

“Fair enough.” Davies sat forward, dislodging Alex, who whimpered as he tried to recapture the man’s cock. Davies removed the blindfold and the earplugs. “How do you feel about something else touching him?”

Alex’s eyes were enormous, looking at John at Harold’s feet, and his mouth still hung open as though he’d forgotten there was no obstruction to him closing it. His own cock was still hard, bound tight to his body by what was little more than a translucent scrap of silk at this point. It, like the collar, had been well-made, despite it’s current ill usage. 

“What did you have in mind?” Harold asked. He could feel the muscles in John’s neck relaxing beneath his touch, the part of him that was always hyper-aware slowly retreating to the background as he sank further into his headspace.

“Well,” Davies said, giving Alex a prod that was clearly some sort of signal, for the man at once dropped to hands and knees, presenting a level surface that Davies casually propped his feet upon, “If I’m any judge, and I like to think that I am, you don’t have a humiliation loving slut like I do. No, what you have is someone who likes to be told he’s doing well, yeah? When’s the last time you took a belt to John?”

“Last night.” Harold said, coolly. He could admit the look of surprise in Davies’ face was satisfying, even if he’d been right about John. Propelled by that satisfaction, he tugged a little at John’s hair, urging him upright. “Show him.”

Eyes cast down, John stood at once and stripped off his jacket and shirt with military efficiency. His shoulders were bruised purple and black in even stripes, and lower down, where it would be dangerous for that much pressure, there were small circles of slightly reddened flesh. Back turned to Davies’, John’s eyes were on Harold’s now, and he could tell John was remembering the night before, with John tied first to the heavy 1800th century carved wardrobe in their private suite and then, when he’d been far enough centered in his body that Harold felt he could risk it, tied with silky scarves face down on the four-poster as Harold slowly dripped wax on the only unmarked parts of his back. By the time his entire back, bruised and blank, was covered with slowly cooling wax, John had been making small, muffled cries into the pillow, and that was when Harold carefully withdrew the plug from his ass and fucked him, fingers pressing and pulling at wax and bruises alike until they had both come in a climax that had felt a little like tumbling over a cliff and being caught by the gentlest of clouds.

Davies whistled, soft and low. “I have to say, Harold,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I wouldn’t’ve thought you had it in you.”

“It’s Crane,” Harold replied, stiffly. “And you’ve no idea what I have in me.”

“True enough.” Davies’ eyes flickered, registering and discarding the idea of taking up the innuendo Harold had walked right into, settling instead on, “Surely, though, you can call me Greg. Unless you’d prefer to follow Alex’s lead, and call me Taskmaster.” One of his heels dug in a little on Alex’s buttocks, and the man stifled a low moan. “But back to the point in hand, I think. Would you let little Alex here touch your John?”

Harold didn’t ask what Alex thought of that. The dynamics had been established, and to break out of them would be rude at best. Instead he looked to John, who was swelled in his pants beyond the usual fullness John Rooney boasted, and his gaze caught on John’s bare neck. The lack of tie wasn’t what bothered him, not in this setting. But the contrast between the vulnerable neck and the comfortably claim of Greg’s collar on Alex rankled. Slowly, Harold slipped his belt out from its loops, eyes still on John, who looked confused but, as usual, ready to step into a hailstorm of bullets on Harold’s word.

“Knees,” Harold said, softly, and John dropped obediently. The belt was Italian leather, and just as expensive as anything else Crane owned, but that was nothing in the face of John’s obedience and trust. He didn’t move as Harold fished in his pocket and withdrew one of the knives John kept in all his suits, even when it ruined the lines, and with a sharp yank had cut the belt to a more suitable length, using the tip to bore three precise holes along the new end. John’s eyes were fastened greedily on his hands, breath coming so shallowly that it was a wonder he bothered at all. Harold thought of a collar around John’s neck, not the makeshift one he held, but one fit for John and stamped with Harold’s name like a brand, and the power over John’s very life it would grant him, if he tightened it a notch beyond what was comfortable. His own cock stirred in response to the image, and he willed it down again. Later, later, in their own space, just the two of them, was the time for that. John deserved better than a spur of the moment impulse. 

For now, he simply looped the makeshift collar around John’s neck, and fastened it on the second notch, settling the buckle in the hollow of John’s throat. Only then did he look across to Greg. “Alex may touch.”

The look in Davies’ face was full of mingled desire and awe, an expression Harold was all too familiar with from his own reflection, and he nodded quickly, removing his boots from Alex’s back and hauling him up to his knees again. “Here’s a treat for you, cocksucker,” he said, the pejorative made almost affectionate by the tone of his voice. “Harold is letting you suck John’s cock. Isn’t that kind of him?”

Alex’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, flush heavy on his cheeks and down his chest. “Yes, Master.”

“What do you say to Mr Crane, slut?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Full sentences, Alex.”

“Thank you for letting me suck John’s cock, Sir.”

Harold could feel Greg’s ironic gaze on him, but he replied steadily, “You’re welcome, Alex.” He undid John’s trousers, slowly sliding them down and guiding John’s long cock into Alex’s mouth. John kept his hands behind his back, but Harold watched with interest as they clenched at the first touch. 

When Harold took John into his mouth, it was an exercise of self control - John wasn’t allowed to move in the least. Harold preferred to take his time, due both to physical limitations and his own desire to see John brought to the brink again and again before granting him release. Alex’s technique was as dissimilar as could be - he took John’s cock as though he were starving for it, choking himself on it again and again with little regard for his breathing or balance.

“He loves it, the filthy little slag.” Greg was reclined in his throne, looking amused and tolerant as ever. “He’ll take a skull fucking and thank you for it, if you’ll let him.”

John looked at Harold, automatic, and a little to Harold’s own surprise, he found himself nodding. John wasted no time, hands on either side of Alex’s head and dragging him onto his cock, hard.

“You’re welcome to his arse, if you like.” Greg offered. His own cock was out, still hard and a little wet from Alex’s ministrations, but he was making no move to touch it. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have him yourself?” 

“Nah.” Greg smiled, but his tone was vicious. “Hasn’t earned my cock in his arse, yet. He was lucky I even let him have a taste of it at all, really, but I’m not cruel - I know what a little cockwhore like this needs, and it’s a taste of a real man’s cock, isn’t it, Alex Horne?”

Alex had John’s cock halfway down his throat and was in absolutely no condition to reply, but nevertheless tilted his ass up in offering, knees widening as much as he could within the constraints of the spreader bar.

Greg laughed, getting up finally from his chair, and hell on earth but he was tall. He stalked over to the three of them, grouped together in their tableau, and got a little stiffly down on one knee. He reached for Alex’s crotch, cradling his cock and balls in one large hand. “Look at these things,” he scoffed. “You’re called little Alex Horne for a reason, and you know it.” He squeezed both balls, contemptuous, and Alex moaned around the tip of the cock still in his mouth, tears starting in his eyes.

“Imagine thinking you could give anyone pleasure with this pencil. Ridiculous, isn’t it, Alex.” He squeezed again, and Alex pulled off of John’s cock long enough to gasp out, 

“Yes, Master.”

“Because what are you, Alex?”

“A slut, I’m a slut for a real cock, Master.”

“Exactly.” Greg stood again, watching with satisfaction as John thrust once more into Alex’s throat and came with only the softest of groans.

Alex held him in his mouth until he was finished, and then cleaned him up with careful hands and mouth before turning eagerly to Harold. “May I please you, sir?”

Greg hooked a finger into Alex’s collar, holding him steady with one hand as he administered a hard swat to Alex’s already red backside. “Greedy little shit. Just had two cocks in your slutty mouth and already you’re looking for another. Come here.”

Harold bent to John, slumped on his knees in a more or less boneless heap. “Are you all right, John?”

John glanced up at him, one hand hooked in the belt around his neck. “Shouldn’t I - be checking on you? You’re not the one who just got his brains sucked out through his dick.”

Harold smiled. “Alex was good, then?”

“I mean, it was kinda nice that I wasn’t tied down and waiting for you to take your sweet time.” John’s mouth quirked a little, sly. “Been a while.”

“Cheeky,” Harold admonished, and tugged a little on the belt. “Perhaps I ought to let poor Alex have  _ your _ mouth, or use it myself.”

John’s eyes went dark, and he swayed more heavily into the collar. “ _ Yes _ , Harold.”

A little intimidated by his success, Harold let go, clearing his throat. John didn’t usually go down this quickly; certainly not in front of an audience. And speaking of which, Alex was seated on Greg’s lap, sideways, Greg’s hand over his mouth and one hand underneath him, fingers moving slowly in and out of Alex’s hole.

Greg saw him looking, and his head tipped a little, inviting. Harold set a hand back on John’s neck, over the collar. “I told Greg he’s not to touch you,” he said to John, soft, “But I will leave it with you, if you would like to touch him or Alex or not.”

“You’ll be there?” John asked, eyes finding Harold’s.

“Of course.”

“Then - I think. I would.”

Harold looked across once again, and Greg, smiling, spread Alex’s legs wider in invitation. “Stay on your knees unless I tell you otherwise, and if anything makes you the least bit uncomfortable, you are to tell me, do you understand?”

“Yes, Harold.”

“There’s my good John.” Harold pressed one of the bruises covering John’s shoulders, gently, and walked stiffly the four or five steps to the throne.

“Hello, John,” Greg’s hand was still firmly clasped over Alex’s mouth, stifling his moans. “Delighted you could join us. Harold, may I offer you a seat? Alex won’t be using his for quite some time. I’d offer you a footrest, as well, but it’s currently busy being a needy little shit.”

“Thank you; I’m doing quite all right.” Harold settled himself on the smaller chair by Greg’s own, watching as John, still obediently on his knees, shuffled forward and then stopped, looking uncertain.

“Normally, I make Alex wait the full weekend before I let him come,” Greg said, speaking quite gently to John, “But as we have visitors, perhaps I’ll let him come early, if he makes himself useful enough.” He turns his head slantwise to look at Harold. “What do you say, Harold? Have you got any ideas of how Alex might make himself useful?”

“You know,” Harold said thoughtfully, “I think I might like a cup of tea, if you don’t mind substitute service.”

Greg looked surprised for a moment, and then laughed, pulling his fingers from Alex’s hole. “An excellent idea.” He placed a dazed looking Alex on his feet and smacked his ass. “Go on, slut. Make Harold a cup of tea, and meanwhile I’ll avail myself of someone not so servile it’s vile.”

Alex stumbled, looking over his shoulder. “May I - would you take off the cuffs?”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“No.”

“Clever boy.” Greg waved him away, turning to Harold. “So which is better, his mouth or his arse?”

“Both are perfect for me.” Harold perhaps hit the possessive a little too hard; but it was worth it for the gratified surprise in John’s face.

“Hmm. Do you mind if I judge for myself?”

Harold raised an eyebrow. “Do you mind if the rules stay the same?”

Greg laughed. “As long as my prick gets a chance to make his acquaintance, I think I can live with that.”

“Done.” Harold looked at John. “Trousers off, my dear.” He gave Greg’s erection a blatant once-over. “And I think your current plug will be sufficient preparation.”

John’s eyes stayed trained on the floor, but the gleam of a challenge issued and accepted was clear in them as he obeyed fluidly, straddling the arms of Greg’s chair and holding on to the ornate posts as he slowly lowered himself onto Greg’s cock.

There was a muted, stricken noise from the doorway, and both Greg and Harold looked up to see Alex stood there, a cup of tea clutched awkwardly in one hand, watching as John rode his master with controlled abandon.

“Well?” Greg snapped. “Get on with it. Give Harold his tea, and then whatever else he wants.”

“Yes, Master.” Several slow, hobbling steps later, Harold’s tea was carefully deposited on the table by his chair, and Alex was knelt in front of him. “How may I please you?”

“Do you know,” Harold said thoughtfully, “I think I would quite like a footstool after all.”

Wordlessly, Alex arranged himself in front of Harold’s chair. Harold noticed with interest he put his face towards Greg, so the foot of man fucking his lover was only a scant inch away. Harold leaned forward, close enough that only Alex would be able to hear him. “Alex,” he said, “Would you like to clean John’s feet for him?”

Underneath his legs, Alex’s back stiffened. In a tone so low as to be nearly inaudible, he answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Really? You want to lick the feet of the man giving your master one of the best fucks of his life?”

Alex burned, limbs trembling, but he whispered again, “Yes, please.”

Harold sat back. “You really are a filthy thing, aren’t you. Beg your master, then.”

Without missing a beat, Alex craned his neck to look up at Greg, despite the weight of Harold’s feet still on him, and begged. “Please, Master, may I clean John’s feet?”

Greg was holding onto the arms of his chair, clutching them the way Harold wouldn’t allow him to touch John, and his knuckles were white with the effort, but he still had the wherewithal to look at Alex and sneer. “Pathetic slut. You’d take anything anyone handed out and thank them for it if it got you attention, wouldn’t you. Tell me you love it.”

“Yes, Master.” Alex looked half wild, tears in his eyes and a definite tremble in his tone. “I - I love it, the attention.”

“Because you’re - ?”

“I’m a desperate slut, and a pervert.”

“Too right. Go on, then.”

The next few minutes were something of a haze for Harold. Harold Crane would have taken one or both of the asses on offer in the first five minutes - spent himself and indulged in any other avarice on offer - but he was not Harold Crane. Here, at least, he was simply Harold, and he had the self control to wait, sheath growing more uncomfortable by the second, as Greg thrust a final time and came in John with a groan. 

He kept himself still as John climbed off, somewhat stiff, and Greg snapped his fingers for Alex, who shuffled in between his legs with an eagerness Harold might have found insulting if he had eyes for anything but the open dampness between John’s legs and the way his cock had hardened again. John would have sunk to his knees again, if Harold hadn’t held out a hand, forestalling him. “Are you too sore to let me have you?”

John’s eyes lit up, a look in them that Harold even to himself can only describe as devout as he breathes, “Yes, please Harold.”

“My good John.” Harold spreads his legs, and John’s hands are there, careful and competent as always, undoing his trousers and slipping off his cock sheath with echoed reverence. 

“How do you want me?”

“Just like this, John, thank you.”

John had to be sore, both his thighs from riding another man and his hold from taking another man’s cock, but he made no complaint, only shifting his weight to be sure he was putting no additional pressure on Finch’s bad hip, and took Harold’s cock in one hot slide. He moved to begin to ride him, but Harold put a hand on his hip. “Wait.”

Puzzled, but obedient, John waited, head a little on one side. Harold put a hand out to John’s collar and tugged, pulling John’s face down to his own. “My John,” he said, soft, and kissed him as gently as he knew how, one hand still hooked in his collar and the other pressing again into the bruises he’d left. “Make yourself tight for me.”

John obeyed, clenching his muscles tight enough that Harold almost groaned. Greg and Alex are no good distraction, because Greg’s idea of a reward seems to be allowing Alex to lick the spend from his cock as he ruts feverishly against Greg’s clothed leg.

“Aren’t you lucky,” Greg crooned, “Aren’t you lucky to have such a kind master as I am, who knows what you need and gives it to you.”

“Yes,” Alex sobbed, “Yes, thank you Master, thank you.”

John moaned into Harold’s mouth, low, but combined with how long he’d been waiting, and the velvety heat around him, it was enough. He came with a grunt, unheard beneath the wail of Alex’s long-looked for release. John was still hard, but he ignored it as he carefully cleaned Harold with light brushes of his tongue and fingers and slipped him back into his sheath and trousers. 

Harold touched it, brief. “Would you like to get off again?” He asked, “Or wait until later, in our rooms?”

“Whatever you like, Harold.” John’s voice was hoarse, and his hips only just refrained from following Harold’s hand as he withdrew it, and Harold smiled. 

“Good. Then put your clothes back on.”

Silent, John moved to obey. Almost like an afterthought, Harold called after him, “Leave the collar on.”

Greg’s face, when Harold turned his head, was amused, but there was something soft there as well. Alex was at his feet, clinging to one leg, but his eyes were closed, and his face looked peaceful, all the stress and strain drained from it. “You’re leaving, then?”

“I think I ought to get John back and fitted for something more proper, don’t you?” Harold stood, nodding politely to Greg and then to Alex, even though he was manifestly unaware of anything that wasn’t the limb beneath his touch. “Thank you. It’s been....instructive.”

“We do our best to oblige,” Greg murmured.

Harold signaled to John, who, re-dressed and the picture of propriety aside from his makeshift collar, came at once to his side. “Perhaps we’ll see you another time.”

“I look forward to it.”

The last thing Harold saw as he closed the door softly behind them was Alex, still collapsed over Greg’s feet, and Greg bending over him and gathering him up, the tone of his voice low and tender.

**Author's Note:**

> you bet your ass i'm posting this anonymously and alex horne if you're reading this: go be kinky on your own time


End file.
